


Atropos

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [15]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:51:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faint as a rising star struggling in heavy earthward mists, and then gleaming brilliant as the jewel’s power waxed, it began to burn, and kindled to a silver flame, a minute heart of dazzling light set amid the dusk skies; thus came down the Silmaril from the high sunset paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atropos

“Earthquake!” 

Mithlond was well nigh deserted after the shipmaster had sailed. But there yet remained Elves in the fringes of the old city, teaching young men from Edhellond and the shores of Pelagrir who came there to learn shipbuilding. 

When Beleriand had fallen, with it had fallen Sirion and much of the shorelines marked in ancient maps. Left in the wake of the War of Wrath were sulphur springs that old men and women of Mithlond often visited to ease their aching bones. They had noticed that the water seemed warmer than was usual, but they had blamed it on the summer heat. They had noticed that froth rose higher than was wont but they had not thought it worthy of observation.

The women screamed as one of the Elves disappeared into the fracture formed by the Earth’s yawn. Winds tore the trees and broke into pieces the rocks. The High Tower of Mithlond, where Círdan had stood for centuries and kept watch, surrendered to nature’s might and a rift began roaring its way toward the sea. 

The Elves screamed, and implored Manwë and Varda and deities they had long worshipped to save them. The great dockyard of Mithlond was ripped by the running fissure and tides rose high and wrathful against the shore.

 

Thorondor was mighty among eagles. He owed fealty to none and answered to none. He built his eyries in mountains that rose high and allowed little trespassing. Interference from none did he brook.

But even he had not been infallible. Fallen he had, to one of the enemy’s snares, in the wilderness of Beleriand. The snare had not been meant for him, he realised, it was sprung for the Quendi. The Noldor. They could never stay out of trouble, he had reflected tersely. The Grey Elves and the Avari had thrived in Beleriand for centuries and knew caution. The Noldor had come with clarions and heralds and were providing vultures and hyenas prime carcasses. Fools.

And this was worse than usual. For the Noldor were being led by their stupid leader straight into the ambush. Thorondor wondered if he should call out a warning, but decided it would serve them nothing. They were ridiculous creatures, ill-inclined to follow advice. He bit down his cries of pain as goblins plucked out his feathers and jeered at him. The Noldor walked into the ambush and fought heroically. They revelled in lost causes, Thorondor decided. Their leader fought tooth and nail until his comrades had all fallen leaving him alone on the battlefield.

Thorondor shrieked out a cry of warning when he dimly recognised the signs of battle turning in another direction. It was not death that awaited the lone man. Capture.

The man was captured. Thorondor viewed his fellow prisoner in distaste. Handsome certainly, though the plumage was unusual for one of the Noldor. Then he saw the quicksilver eyes and he understood who it was. Miríel’s grandson. He had not known that the finest of the Noldor were unparalleled fools. At least, that was Thorondor’s opinion until they had reached a narrow creek, and the prisoner swung deftly disarming his guards and grabbing a curved knife from one of them before cutting off Thorondor’s bonds.

“Go!” he implored, even as the other goblins and one of the Balrogs came. “Fly!”

Thorondor had flown away. 

And Thorondor had kept watch. He would not risk swooping down to the rocks, but he would let his mighty wings shield the Prince from hail and harsh sunshine. He did not think that the Prince knew it, for the man was barely alive from what Thorondor could see. Rescue was impossible, for not even Thorondor’s sharp beak could break the chains that bound the Prince. And yet rescue came, in the form of a cousin valiant, and Thorondor carried them away to safety.

His wings had been discoloured by the Prince’s blood for weeks until the rains had washed it off. 

He would wonder occasionally how the Prince was faring. With the wounds that Thorondor had seen inflicted on the emaciated body, he doubted survival. The Lord of Eagles believed that the Prince might be better off dead.

Then he heard tidings of the fortress built on Himring and he took his time and brooded for months before venturing there. He loathed dealings with the Quendi who seemed to be under the illusion that he was to be worshipped. They would implore him to intercede with Manwë. 

Yet, he flew to Himring and located the Prince. He seemed well enough. Thorondor made to leave, his concerns and curiosity quenched. 

“Blackfeather!” the Prince hailed him then, grey eyes shining in pleased surprise. “I thought I would never see you again!”

“Black feather?” Thorondor asked. “I am Thorondor, Lord of Eagles and beloved to Manwë.”

“That poses a problem,” the Prince remarked.

Thorondor peered down his beak at the Prince who elaborated, “I have an unnatural aversion to anything that Manwë favours.”

“Which would explain why you are in this state,” Thorondor retorted.

“Indeed!” The Prince laughed. “But, most remiss of me to offer no refreshments to a guest, and an honoured guest at that!”

“Were you interested in surveying Angband?” Thorondor demanded. “You walked open-eyed into that ambush.”

“Surveying would explain my task,” the Prince said pensively. “Straight lines, circles and meridians.”

“I can see the lands stretched out below me when I fly. If you had badly wanted to know, I could have told you.”

“Surveying was one part of my task,” the Prince demurred.

“Yes. If any part of your task was giving them free sport, you did succeed,” Thorondor muttered, and then wondered why he was stooping as low as to have an argument with foolish men.

But they had spoken of other things. Conversation was the Prince’s forte, Thorondor realised that day. He would often fly to Himring after that and indulge in haranguing the Prince for his parley mishap. He did not admit aloud that he had developed a certain vested interest in seeing the Prince intact and sane each time. 

 

Now, as he flew directly above the mighty rift racing west, he could hear the telltale hiss and spray of volcanic ash from beneath.

The Silmaril that the Prince had taken to earth’s bosom. 

 

Galadriel rode north, her cause taking her along the same path that her cousin had traversed that fateful day. 

 

“I killed him, Maitimo,” she had told him without preface when he pulled her into one of the cabins on the ships and demanded to know the cause of her shaken nerves.

They could still hear Finarfin and Fingolfin arguing. Maedhros closed the door and leant against it. The voices faded. 

“Why did you kill him?” he asked quietly.

“You are not a fool,” she said in a sharp tone. 

“I need you to say that aloud,” he pressed.

“I killed him to save my father!” she shouted, and he shot her a warning glare. 

“What do you say?” she demanded. “Judge me.”

“Heal me,” he said then, tossing catgut and needle at her. “It is a most inopportune time to die of internal bleeding, would you not say?”

“Internal bleeding?” she asked, horror lending a higher pitch to her voice.

“You and I are not unlike, Artanis. We will do what is necessary to save those we love. You killed your grandfather today. That act saved Arafiinwë. I sold my innocence. That gained nothing. You will not judge me and I will not judge you. Now heal me and let us return to the deck.” 

“What-” she began and then shook her head. 

Her hands did not tremble as she sutured the tears. But his thighs shook and he braced a palm against the wall to support himself.

 

“You cannot show me anything worse than what I have lived through,” she calmly told the force that tried to drag her mind into despair. 

She did not take the high road to Formenos. Instead, she used a hunting trail that Aredhel had once shown her. It led around the plains and reached a crevice in the mountains on the eastern side. The pass was narrow and led directly to the inner periphery of the city. 

When she entered the pass, her horse neighed and began pawing at the earth. She inhaled sharply and looked up. Vingilot was nearing them and soon it would be directly above Formenos. 

“Faster,” she murmured to the horse. “Unless you wish to bury us both in the rubble.”

The horse cantered forth and she narrowed her eyes at the ship of Eärendil, calculating distances and probabilities yet again. 

The ominous groan of rocks towering on either side of her told that the sea plates had split. She dug in her soles into the horse’s flanks. 

Faint as a rising star struggling in heavy earthward mists, and then gleaming brilliant as the jewel’s power waxed, it began to burn, and kindled to a silver flame, a minute heart of dazzling light set amid the dusk skies; thus came down the Silmaril from the high sunset paths. 

 

It was as the parley. The men had been slain all about him. He remained, bleeding and panting, as he sought in vain to defend himself against Oromë’s charge. He could see wariness and surprise in Oromë’s eyes. He was surprised himself. He had not expected that he would hold out as he had. 

Veryo had fallen at his feet, valiantly striving to ward off Oromë’s charge. Many had fallen. Overriding the scent of blood was the familiar stench of soil and sputum - the herald of death that Maglor was intimately familiar with. He had fought many battles and kept vigil by the sides of dying men - inconceivable that he would not recognise it. But, that stench, it did also herald life. It had heralded his brother’s revenant triumph. 

His brother. Gnashing his teeth and forging his mind set, he threw himself into the rhythmic grace of the sword’s thrust and parry. Oromë swung a mighty blow that Maglor could not have swerved away from. Gratefully, he made to surrender into the decapitation that awaited him. He did not care. He had ceased caring a long while ago.

“Macalaurë!” 

In the split second he turned his head away from Oromë, his mind called away from focus by his dear cousin’s shout, he felt fire blazing down and a pool of metal scalded his feet even through the boots he wore - Oromë’s sword - and an inhuman scream resounded off the mountains. 

The lands shook and he ran to his cousin’s side. 

“Artanis,” he breathed, staring at the woman he had kept a watch over for years before succumbing to his selfish need to leave the lands that had given him hallowed memories, bitterness and tears.

She gripped his wrist and tugged him. They ran together, fleeing the fires that lapped at their feet and the rift splitting the continent apart. His long experience in negotiating cliffs and sheer falls aided their reckless course and they found themselves on the terrace where the statue of Miríel Serindë stood.

He watched in rising horror as the gates of Formenos were devoured by flames and the dry grasslands became vast plains of fire. 

They heard an eruption, and then another, and another. 

“Hyamentir,” she whispered. “The mountain was a dormant volcano. The Pelori ranges harbour many such mountains.”

“The halls of Námo,” he began in shock.

“Gone, the sea, the earth and the fire have taken them,” she said quietly. “Vaire will no longer weave discord into her tapestries. The weaver, the spindle and the loom have all been destroyed.”

“What have you done?” he asked her fearfully. “What of Tirion? What of our people? What of Arda?”

“It is a rift in the earth’s crust.” She glared at him, but he remained unyielding and she sighed before elaborating, “Russandol,” he flinched at the name, but she continued bravely, “he found that a rift ran along the crust of earth’s bowels. The Silmaril he carried was borne to the earth’s bosom, into the rift. He had calculated from the tides and from the winds that the plates would shift at a certain rate. He was proved right. The plates must have smashed the Silmaril. The fire that resulted awoke old volcanoes and the sea was disturbed. The rift opened and raced across the sea until it reached the Caves of the Forgotten.”

“Elros!” Maglor exclaimed, his face paling.

“Pharazôn and his men were buried there. With the Silmaril you threw into the sea. The plates were affected,” she paused and shook her head, “no, the plates ripped the seabottom and we are in this situation.”

“Eärendil,” Maglor began quietly.

“It was necessary.” She shrugged, and in that gesture, he could see his brother again. He averted his gaze. 

“Eärendil understood that there was no choice. He would not surrender the Silmaril to Manwë. So he watched the skies and struck with all he had when the time came. No weapons made by man can bring down one of the Valar. But the jewels containing the Flame Imperishable could, for they were Eru’s instruments.”

“For he that attempteth to capture light shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined,” Maglor quoted off from the Ainulindalë quietly.

She nodded pensively and placed her hand on the cold feet of Miríel Serindë. Instinct roared warnings at him and he saw that the sea had risen from under the mountains through the rift to battle with the flames. They were safe, for now. But they were circled by water and flame. Yet that did not worry him. What worried him was her presence.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her fearfully. 

“Here the Broideress stands sentinel.” She looked up at the statue. “Here dreams shall not dare tread.”

Her pensive smile gave her away. This would be the last battleground of wills and dreams. He felt the familiar invisible force gripping his consciousness. 

“No!” he whispered. “Artanis, you should not have come! I will not die. But I cannot protect you.”

“Will you fall to him as your father fell? How many more shall fall?” she asked quietly. “I shall not let him weave deceit again.”

“Get away!” he shouted as his will was subdued by garish gold.

“Atropos,” she breathed.

 

“Please!” the man begged, and fingers with torn nails came to imploringly touch the grimy soles of his fellow prisoner. “I need to live.”

And replied a voice remarkable for its inherent sadness, “Then you will live, Prince. Elerrína gives you her word.”

Torches flickered disapproval, the man’s wide haunted eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling, lips moved in a wretched prayer imploring mercy and forgiveness to the woman who rode him until blood sped down her thighs. The bond was forged between man and woman. 

“You will live,” intoned Elerrína over the man’s harsh sobs.

 

Maglor saw, from a very distant corner of his mind, that he was wielding sword and charging at his beloved cousin. He saw her calm smile and the sparkle in those blue eyes, and the faint exclamation that escaped her parted lips as his sword met flesh.

Fire blazed through him, white and mad, and he saw ashes rising in defiant coils, dancing with the winds that ravaged the lands. She had been burned into ashes, as his father had been long ago. The grip of dreams broke and he was left panting alone.

“Artanis!” he screamed, his voice broken of melody and cadence. 

His fingers clawed desperately, and the sun was covered by clouds that poured forth torrents. His fingers were sooted black by her ashes and he struck his head on the statue of the Broideress, weeping bitterly. 

The thunder in the skies, the rumbling underneath the mountains and the cry of the bard sang requiem for the woman who had been the last herald of dusk.

* * *

Notes:  
Atropos - the fate who cuts the thread of life. Greek mythology. A more basic connection can be made via atropa belladona, sometimes called the deadly nightshade. Daughter of the night. Inevitable shears of death et al.


End file.
